


One Fine Day

by nestorius



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Scratching, unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2017-12-27 10:05:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nestorius/pseuds/nestorius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Ichabod is flustered and Abbie is not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Fine Day

It happened the first week. She had cracked open the door to de-steam the mirror, hadn’t bothered to fetch the towel from the rack. He walked in and she was sitting on the toilet, one leg up on the other, painting her toenails.

“Oh,” he said, and “Oh dear Lord,” and he skittered like a crab and nearly closed his hand in the door in his haste to shut it.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice muffled by the frame. “I am so, so, sorry, Miss Mills, please forgive –”

“It happens,” Abbie said, and wiped a little dash of Essie Jag-U-Are from the side of her big toe. “Don’t worry about it.”

He didn’t seem to hear her. “To intrude on you like that – ”

“Ichabod,” she said, loud enough that she surprised herself, “it’s not a big deal. Try to knock next time.”

The floorboards outside the bathroom creaked; she heard his footsteps as he scuttled away. She felt a wicked smile creeping up her face and rolled her eyes at herself.  Stood on one foot, pulled the towel from the rack, draped it on her lap. Went back to doing her nails. 

* * *

 

Ten hours later. She’d left him with a stack of history books and when she came back laden with shopping he was on the couch, reading about the War of 1812. He was poking through the groceries now. He understood plastic bags on a utilitarian level but was strange about their strength. He picked one up at a bad angle and it broke. A can of chicken chowder rolled on the floor. He fetched it and looked at her with desperate eyes.

“It’s a plastic bag,” she said, before he could apologize. “There are millions of them.”

He relaxed, and continued poking, pulling everything out carefully and organizing it on a circle on the table.

“We’re having spicy chicken,” she said, and paused, considering. “How good are you with spices?”

He didn’t answer – he had found the bag with the toiletries. She had bought him a toothbrush and deodorant and Head ‘N Shoulders so he wouldn’t use up all of her peach shampoo, a four-pack of boxers, a brush. He held up a square box and blinked at her. “What are these for?”

Yikes. “Nothing that concerns you.”

He looked fairly hurt. Abbie sighed, told herself he might as well learn. “They’re for periods.”

“Periods of what?”

“Are you serious?”

“What?” He looked like a frightened dog, cringing away from her slightly.

She sat at the table, plucked the box from his hands. “Ichabod,“ she said, “have you heard the phrase _time of the month_?”

He stared at her, and stared at the box, and stared at her again. “Is it a womanly thing?”

“Yes.”

“Oh,” he said, and “Oh,” and looked slightly ill – she had half a second to be annoyed, and then he looked at the box again and said, “Katerina made me wash her rags when she was of a temper.”

“Oookay,” Abbie said. She put the box back in the bag with her soap and the new scrubbie. Ichabod looked sad. What a memory to be sad about, washing your dead wife’s – used rags. “So. Hand me those chicken breasts.”

He blushed slightly – she wondered why, realized she’d said _breast_ , rolled her eyes, held out her hand. “Chicken, please.”

He handed her the chicken and watched her cook. Handed her spices when she asked. Kept looking at the bag with the box in it. She had him clear the table while the pan spat and his eyes watered on his first bite. “This is delicious,” he choked. “Thank you, Miss Mills.”

“Sure you’re enjoying it?”

“I love it,” he said, and he did look like he loved it, under his running eyes. “Heats the blood.”

He said _blood._ The bag with the box was under the table, near his feet. He blushed.

“You’re such a baby,” she said. “Eat.”

“Forgive me – ”

“Ichabod – ”

“I didn’t mean to be uncouth – ”

“Ichabod,” and she knocked her knuckles against the table, “please. Shut up.”

That cowed him for a moment and he ate and he swallowed and he looked up at her again. “May I ask you a question?”

“Shoot.”

“Pardon?”

Idioms. Avoid idioms. “I mean, go ahead.”

“What were you doing in the – bath – room – when I – ” He cleared his throat. “Are your feet troubling you?”

“I was painting my toes.”

“Painting…”

“Like this,” and she showed her nails. They had chipped a bit over the week but had mostly held up. Three coats and Seche Vite usually worked. He took her hand with the utmost gentleness and rubbed his knuckle over her thumbnail.

“Red suits you,” he said.

“Thanks.”

He put her hand down. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Quit apologizing. You’re going to screw up. I’m going to be confusing. You don’t _know_ anything.”

Ichabod looked put out. “I know a fair few things.”

“They’re not transferable to the modern age. It’s okay.” She shrugged. “Plus, I’m used to living alone. Or living with sisters. I walk around naked a lot. I don’t really care. It happens.”

He looked at her.

“I mean, if I’m making you uncomfortable I’ll try to wear a bathrobe in the mornings, but really, Ichabod, it’s not a big deal. Knock first. Don’t worry about tampons.”

“Tampons?”

“Womanly things.”

He looked miserably embarrassed again and she felt slightly ashamed of herself. She patted his hand. “If you ever have any questions about anything – _anything –_ ask. It’s fine.”

“All right,” he said, and “all right.”

He managed to put his plate in the dishwasher without breaking anything. 

 

* * *

 

It was a Friday – she could take him out to a club, watch him squirm in Day-Glo lights, but that was somehow unappealing. She had Hannibal and Parks and Recreation on the DVR but figured he wouldn’t understand them. He watched her slot the Game of Thrones DVD into the player. “How do these devices work?”

“Uh. Lights. Digital readers.” She sat herself on the couch and he scooted away, leaving a good space between them. The pillows and blanket he had used for the past couple of nights were arranged at his feet. “I’m not really sure, honestly. I know how to use them. Sort of.”

“What on earth do you do when they break?”

“Call someone who knows how to fix them.” She fiddled with the remote. “Keep in mind, none of this is real.”

“Yes, Miss Mills, I _quite_ understand the concept of theatre.”

But when the rangers came to the dead village she noticed him digging his nails into the couch cushions.

“You okay there?”

“This is _horrifying,_ ” he said, and leaned forward.

She’d sort of forgotten about the wight beheading the ranger. He recoiled as if he’d been shot and she put a hand on his. “Need me to turn it off?”

“No,” and he was set very far forward on the couch, eyes wide. Confused, horrified, fascinated. He didn’t slip her hand out from under hers.

They made it all the way to the Lannisters’ arrival at Winterfell before he actually put a hand over his eyes. Tyrion and the prostitute talking nicknames and power. “Oh my,” he said.

“There’s too much nudity in this show,” Abbie said, wanting to support him. “It’s pretty pointless.”

“Close the door,” said Tyrion Lannister.

Ichabod was quite obviously thinking of the cracked bathroom door this morning, Abbie with her leg up on the other, because he pulled his other hand out from under hers and rubbed at his face. And the next scene was Daenerys Targaryen getting into her bath, so that was worse for him.

Abbie stifled a laugh, scolded herself. _Don’t be mean_. She probably should have picked something else. At least Hannibal didn’t have nudity in it. Or not much, anyway.

He lapsed back into white-knuckled concentration, wincing occasionally and at the end let out an honest-to-god shriek. “That poor child!”

“Mm,” Abbie agreed.

“That can’t be the end of it, can it?”

What the hell, it was a Friday and she didn’t have too many errands to run tomorrow. “Want to watch the next one?”

“Yes please, Miss Mills.”

The second episode didn’t make him cringe nearly as much. He nodded with satisfaction when Jon Snow gave Arya a sword, clapped when she stuck another one in Joffrey’s face. “I quite like her.”

“I like her too.”

“I _hate_ the blond creature,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “All of the blond creatures. Kings are universally loathsome animals.”

“Kind of the point of this show.”

“Is it?” He looked happy.

“Power corrupts.”

He got very mad when Ned killed the dog, nearly burst off the couch; settled for wagging his finger and shaking his head. “Monstrous!”

“Yep.”

“Is there another?”

“There’s nine more,” she said, and, before he could get too excited, “we could watch one more tonight, if you want.”

“If it please you,” he said.

They ended up watching two more. At the end they were side by side on the couch, his hand on hers, gripping tight.

“It’s just a TV show,” she heard herself saying, which was rude. She nudged his shoulder with her own. “Glad you like it.”

He looked at her and she could see that he was enraptured, like a child who had seen Star Wars for the first time.

“Thank you, Miss Mills,” he said, and it was ridiculous how much he meant it, how his eyes were still shining. “Thank you so much.”

She had a nascent nerd on her hands. This was either going to end well or drive her insane. She slid her hand out of his grip, patted him on the shoulder. Got up.

“Think I’m going to go to bed,” she said.

“Do you think – ”

“You want to watch another?”

He did. She grinned despite herself, handed him the remote. She had created a monster. 

* * *

 

“Miss Mills?”

Later. She’d heard him shouting at he television. He'd probably turned managed to turn it off, or maybe he'd broken it. The bathroom door opened and Ichabod poked his head out. “Miss Mills, could you assist me?”

Abbie put her book down and got out of bed. He had a towel round his shoulders and another round his waist – he had tucked it neatly, so he could hold the one round his shoulders like a sort of cape.

“I can’t for the life of me make the water stop boiling.” He was trying not to look at her. It was a hot night for September and she was in a camisole and boy shorts. “I’m sure there’s a sort of trick to it, but…”

“I have the only shower in the world that overheats.” The bathroom was small enough that she had to lean over him to fiddle with the knobs. Between the cloak and the waist-wrap she could see his muscles. He was pretty thin for a soldier, though maybe soldiers in the olden days had different demands on their bodies. Maybe you had to be light because you were running through the woods all the time. Something like that. She fiddled the water into something between hot and lukewarm and stepped back, her elbow brushing against his belly. “Better?”

He put his hand in the stream and smiled. “Thank you, Miss Mills.”

She closed the door behind her and went to sit on the bed. Picked the book up, looked at it, put it back down. She listened to the water falling, examined her nails.

He came out ten minutes later with his straggly hair combed and in a ponytail – she had lent him an outsized Sleepy Hollow PD shirt to wear, and the boxers were slightly big around the waist. They’d gone to Target on Tuesday, bought him a load of jeans and shirts, but she’d forgotten pajama pants. Oh well. He was damp and she could feel his warmth across the room. His arms were filled with the towels. “What should I do with these?”

“Hang them up on the rack. Did you brush your teeth?”

He disappeared back into the bathroom. When he came out he was grimacing. “That mint stuff is rather strong.”

“Means it’s working.”

He looked very good in his outsized Sleepy Hollow PD shirt. It was big on her but it was just a little too small for him across the chest. His skin was flushed from the water and he smelled very strongly of mint. The boxers were drapey but cut a little short. He had nice legs. Nicer than Andy’s, at any rate. They’d slept together a few times and he had stayed for dinner once. Don’t think about Andy, he’s dead.

“Well,” he said, and shifted on his feet. “Thank you again for supper, Miss Mills.”

“Ichabod,” she said.

“Yes?”

She got out of bed and walked over to him. She kissed him, more out of curiosity than anything. It wasn’t a very deep kiss but he jolted back as if he was on fire, stared at her.

“Miss Mills,” he said weakly.

“Did I make you uncomfortable? I’m sorry.”

“It’s unseemly,” he said. “You’re a – beautiful young woman, but – ”

But he was looking at her mouth, and her breasts where they swelled under the camisole, and his hands twisted behind his back. He was trembling.

She kissed him again, see what he would do. He kissed her back. He put his hand under her chin, tilted her head up for a better angle. He wasn’t a very good kisser. Too polite. He tasted very strongly of mint, and, at the back, Scotch Bonnet peppers.

She worked him out of the shirt. The scar where the Headless Horseman’s axe had split him was big and ugly, made him look like he’d had open-heart surgery. She didn’t touch it. He had another scar, a burned strip on his side – she put her thumb on it and he swallowed. “Bullet,” he said. “It barely hit me.”

She hiked up her camisole, showed him where a drug dealer had grazed her a few years before. His hand hovered over it and then closed down. He didn’t snake his hand up her camisole and she sensed he wouldn’t even if she pushed his hand in that direction. She kissed him again, put her arms around his waist, and after a bit he did the same. He left wet patches on her camisole. He startled when she put her tongue in his mouth. He was coltish and too shy. She supposed women two hundred and fifty years ago didn’t really strike first.

But despite his coltishness and the trembling he was an adult and he had been married, so. He was probably more reticent because of the marriage thing. She thought about  her lack of condoms, for a moment, rationalized that whatever bugs he had chortling around in his system were long dead – and she was on the pill, so. She kissed his cheek, looped her arms around his neck. “Do you want me to stop?”

He slid his hand down her back, stopping just at the swell of her buttocks.

“That mean no?” She tugged him bodily towards the bed, folded herself onto it; he half-hopped, half-fell on top of her, and he arched over her, his knees on either side of her hips. His eyes were very blue and his mouth was half open.

“Miss Mills,” he whispered, and didn’t seem to know what to follow it up with.

She kissed him, and kept kissing him, and hoped he’d figure out that he should start doing something. Eventually he broke away from her mouth and laid his lips on her collarbone. He slid his hands down her body. Didn’t lift up the camisole but his fingers caught at the edge of it, where it was hiked up between belly and hip, and he stroked his thumb across the flesh that showed. An unexpected shiver arced through her; he felt it, and smiled, and it wasn’t a sweet smile or a mean one but it tilted slightly towards _wicked_ and she laughed. She put her hand under his chin, made him look in her eyes. “Mr. Crane.”

“May I,” he said, and hooked his thumbs into her shorts. She wriggled and he got them down around her knees

“Ah,” she said, when his fingers brushed over her folds. “Not yet. I need – ”

He blinked at her, and then he pushed himself down on the bed. He wasn’t very good with his lips like that, either – bad at kissing usually translated to bad at other things – but there was the mint, the too much of it, and it made her shiver. He seemed to be more focused on getting her wet than getting her off, so she half-sat up and put her hand on the back of his neck. He looked up at her with his blue eyes.

“With feeling,” she said, and she kept her hand on the back of his neck.

He liked that. He moved his hands, one resting on her belly, one drawing spiral patterns on her mons pubis. His fingers moved down; she spread her legs and the tip of his thumb went in from above, rubbing against her clitoris. He licked her carefully, like he was remembering how to do it, and the low heat gathered in her belly caught in her blood and arced through her veins.  

Her orgasm crept up on her and hit her without warning; she released it with a breath. He didn’t seem to notice and went after her with more gusto. She had to nudge him away. He rested his head on her thigh and his breath brushed against her.

“Come here,” she said, and when he didn’t come here she pulled him up by the shoulders and let him collapse on top of her. He squeaked when she kissed him – he still tasted mostly of mint. He was hard against her thigh and when she slipped her hand down the front of the too-short boxers he made a small sound, like a cat. He buried his face between her breasts, moaned. He wasn’t circumcised; she hadn’t had to deal with that since college, but she remembered, and he melted in her hand. His breath got shuddery against her breasts and he kissed her right nipple through the thinness of her camisole. She took his hand, guided it down, bit back a little gasp as he slid his fingers inside her.

“Come on,” she said, pleased that her voice wasn’t cracking, just breathless and throaty, and he did. He kissed her on the mouth and she kissed him back and when he slid inside her she hiked one leg up on his back.

He was much better at this. Much better. Delicious. She scraped her nails on his shoulders, looking for something to hold on to, and his breath hitched in his throat. She dug her nails in, intrigued, and he buried his face in her neck. His rhythm was quick and irregular and deep and she didn’t _love_ it but it was good enough. Much more exciting was how his face look, how his soggy ponytail fell over his shoulders, how his eyes screwed up and how he panted against her. She pulled against him, arched her hips, and he hit true enough that she squeaked and dug her nails in again.

“Miss Mills – ”

“Don’t you _dare_ stop – ”

And he didn’t, and it was suddenly bliss. He gave up on kissing her and just kept his mouth vaguely near her neck, traced his hands around her hips, and he was ragged and panting and _good_ and at the last she rolled him over like a log and he gasped, surprise and pleasure, and she felt him release into her. Kind of fast, but – end of a dry spell, she could give it to him.

He slumped back in the pillows like the dying Gaul and she let herself sink on top of him. Brushed a hank of wet hair from his cheek.

He very carefully adjusted himself out of her, rolled over to the side. He was taking great sloppy breaths. She sat up, crossed her legs, stroked his back. His eyes fell on her feet, on the nails with their Jag-U-Are polish.

“Thank you, Miss Mills,” he said after a while. He was still a little raggedy.

“Any time,” she said, and laughed at last, because that was ridiculous. He laughed too, probably not for the same reason, and she adjusted herself so he could put his head on her bare lap.

"You probably need another shower," she said, stroking his hair.

He looked up at her, made as if to move, but she put her hand on his shoulder-blade and he kept still.

"In the morning," she said.

"In the morning," he repeated, and he buried his face in her lap.

She petted him like a cat until he fell asleep, then roled over to pull the blanket over both of them.

The next day he didn't scuttle when he saw her in the shower. He didn't get in either, which was fine. Instead he sat on the toilet and painted his toenails bright blue, and when she was done they finished another five episodes of Game of Thrones.

And they were just a week in, which was nice.

She could probably get used to this.

**Author's Note:**

> i cannot write endings 4give me


End file.
